Better Left Unsaid
by Ira Lea
Summary: One night, when Carmelita was young, she and her father chanced upon a burned out house. Trashed and run down, it was. A murder scene. What happened, the boy asks the officer? Some things are better left unsaid. Carm's POV, fairly short oneshot, prepare for minor angst. Rated Kplus for blood and a murder scene, but no language or violence or M-worthy content.


**Better Left Unsaid  
**(Inspired by 'Where is Your Heart' by Kelly Clarkson)  
_Sly Cooper: Thievus Raccoonus_

_**Told From the POV of Carmelita**__  
_When I first saw the house, burned out and trashed, my first thought was to run to my father and get him to search it. I was young at the time—seven or eight. These days, I would have gone in myself, sent the backup round to search out other possible exits and entrances, brought a couple in with me to guard my back while I looked for survivors of whatever tragedy had occurred. But _those_ days, I was still just 'Li'l Carmy', the shy girl. I didn't have backup. Just my papa.

He didn't want me to go in, but what can I say? Even back then, I had a nose for trouble, and I was curious. So I followed him.

It was dark and cold in there, and I stuck close to him, looking around and eyeing the shadows. There were pictures on the wall, some askew, some shattered. Some had fallen, and lay cracked on the floor. Curtains swayed ominously by the shattered windows, and, far off, in a room up a flight of caved-in stairs, a light was on and flickering erratically. I thought I must be in some kind of horror movie.

My dad saw them first, and told me to stop and stay back, but it was too late—I'd already caught a glimpse of the bodies. A man crumpled against the wall as if thrown, and a woman, lying over him as if she had died trying to shield his body. They were bloody—_so bloody_—and broken, and back then, it terrified me. Obviously I'm made of sterner stuff now. Then, though, I hadn't known what had happened, and I was unaware that I was witnessing the aftermath of a brutal murder.

My dad called the police, and made me wait in another room, out of sight of the murdered husband and wife, while he went and checked the upstairs to see if anyone had survived—though, at that moment, we both figured it was more likely that if he found anything, it would be more bodies.

I would have stayed in the room he left me in, had I not heard a strange sound coming from the room with the dead couple. Immediately, thoughts of all the horror movies I'd ever watched without my parent's permission came to mind, and I'll admit: I was terrified.

Then I realized that it was sniffling. It sounded like someone very young, _crying_ quietly to themselves.

Immediately all thoughts of the waking dead flew my young mind, and I ventured back into the room, glad to have a purpose. I ignored the limp bodies as best as I could, instead trying to find the source of the sniffing.

Eventually, I laid eyes on a door that was partially open, half hidden behind a low green couch. I was sure that the sound was coming from there and, cautiously, I approached it.

Yes, I'll be the first to concede—it was reckless. I should've called for my father, for help, but I needed to know what was making that sound, and I needed to help whatever it was. Slowly, I inched the door open.

It was a small closet, dark and full of more shadows, but I could see eyes shining from the darkness, reflecting the meager light from outside. When I appeared, the owner of the eyes let out a yelp of fear and shrank back, away from me.

"Don't hurt me," I remember him saying. "I—I'm sorry! Don't hurt me!"

I tugged the door open, forcing the couch to the side to make room, and the dim, gray light from the windows finally revealed the closet's inhabitant—a little boy, maybe a year younger than me, huddled in the corner. His big brown eyes were swimming with tears and bright with fear.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I told him, crouching down to his level. "I promise."

He eyed me warily, but seemed to come to a realization. "You're just a little girl," he informed me uncertainly, as if he needed me to confirm the proof of his eyes.

"Yes, I know," I tried not to be offended, remembering that he'd most likely been through something traumatic very recently. "And I'm not going to hurt you." I offered him my hand, silently hoping he'd accept.

It took a long moment of him staring at me uncertainly, but the revelation that I was "just a little girl" seemed to have banished most of his fears. Finally, he reached out and accepted my hand, and I helped him out of the closet.

"What happened here?" I asked.

Okay, so, probably not the most tactful thing to say, considering where we were and how I'd found him, but I'll have you remember that I was young.

Even so, his eyes welled once again with tears, and he looked on the edge of an emotional breakdown. He sniffed and took a few deep, shaky, tear-choked breaths, obviously trying to stop crying (_no_ boy likes to cry in front of a little girl, even at six years old, it seems). Then he saw the bodies.

"Mama!" he wailed suddenly, rushing over to them. "Daddy!" He feel to his knees next to them and shook the man's shoulder, hard. He looked up at me with huge eyes wide with horror. "They won't wake up," he squeaked. "They're not—they're not—!"

Realization seemed to dawn on him, and he collapsed into a mess of sobs, still clutching at his father's arm.

I was horrified, and immediately hurried over to comfort him. I stayed next to him and murmured comfort, just like my mama used to whisper to me when I had nightmares, trying to stop his crying. Thankfully, dad came down eventually, drawn by the sound of hiccupping tears, and took over.

The police arrived soon after, and tried to question the little boy. I was still in awe of adults back then, but now I look back and curse that. I should've dragged them away from him and given them a tongue-lashing so bad they would never had tried to come back again. The little boy was obviously in shock and his parents lay dead before him—it was not the time to be questioning him and asking for a detailed account of what had happened! Sure, I'd asked as well, but they were adults—they should've known better!

All they got out of him (and it took some time) was his name and a question.

"S-Sly," he managed to hiccup. "W-W-What happened to them? Why w-won't they w-w-wake up?"

The police officer looked sad and exchanged mournful looks with his comrades. "Sly," he replied at length, "some things are better left unsaid."

The little raccoon's eyes welled with more tears, and he curled up in a little ball, crying quietly to himself. I stayed with him as long as I could.

That night—the night his parents were murdered by the Fiendish Five—was the night I first met Sly Cooper.

* * *

**_AN: Yeah, this is a LOT more angsty than things I usually write. Typically, even if I do write something particularly heartrending, I at least find a way to put a happy spin on it and make it cute and fluffy. But...not this, apparently. I'm sad now. But, I just heard one line in 'Where Is Your Heart' ("So much is left unsaid") which made me think of "better left unsaid" and then I had a vision of a police officer murmuring seriously: "Some things are better left unsaid." And then...this was born._**

**_So, for those of you who noticed that none of the events in this fanfiction have anything to do with the events in said song, there's your reason._**

**_Now, if you're not a hardcore angst reader and haven't built up that protective layer of insensitivity yet, I suggest you go find some overly fluffy hurt/comfort to put you in a better mood. Better yet, search the genres 'friendship' and 'family'. There's always something happy there._**


End file.
